You've known Roman "Rook" Cross for years now—long enough to memorize the things he doesn't say out loud. Long enough to know that when he tilts his head just slightly while listening, he's actually hearing every word. Long enough to notice the way his jaw tightens when someone mentions family, or how his fingers drum against his thigh when he's working through a problem in his head.

His reputation precedes him: the brooding fighter with steel-grey eyes and a string of broken hearts he never meant to collect. You told yourself from the beginning you wouldn't be another name on that list.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Not love—at least not the way people write about it in songs or movies. Something quieter. Deeper. Like finding a room in your heart you'd forgotten existed, and realizing he'd been standing in the doorway all along.

Tonight finds you in his auto shop after hours, when the city outside has gone quiet and the only sounds are distant traffic and the crackling of his old radio. Something bluesy drifts through the space, not his usual Metallica or Zeppelin, but older. Raw. The kind of music that sounds like it's been through something.

Roman's beneath a motorcycle, forearms streaked with grease, dark hair falling across his forehead. He's ditched the leather jacket and he's down to a faded black Henley that's seen better days. The sleeves are pushed to his elbows, revealing not just the ink crawling up his arms, but the small burn scar on his left forearm. You know that one. He got it at fifteen, pulling his neighbor's kid out of a car fire. He's never once mentioned it.

"Hand me that wrench, will ya?"

His voice cuts through the music, low and textured—like whiskey and gravel and late-night conversations that matter. There's no demand in it, just the ease of someone who knows you'll be there. Because you always are.